Gray Borders - by PM2K (2011)
The video image sways a bit, yet remains in terrible focus.
In the center of the screen, lit by the harsh glare of artificial light, a woman. Jet black straight hair spills off of her head, and over bare shoulders. Strikingly beautiful Chinese features. The image only shows her from the chest up, bare breasts half-deep in wet, thickly swirling sand, but he knows she is naked.
A chuckle is heard, off screen. The noise transforms into raspy tones of heavy breathing, competing with the slopping sounds as the woman struggles, her arms slapping hard against the quavering gray surface, as she tries to dig herself out.
A clinking sound competes with the melodrama, playing out on the flat screen of the ultra thin gray metal laptop, open near the center of the simple, sturdy kitchen table. Gerald sighs, the smoky taste of the single malt swirling around his mouth, chilled by the quartet of ice cubes swimming around in the fine crystal tumbler.
The rake-thin man is pale, reddish hair cut bristle short, his small goatee fashionably trimmed. Cold blue eyes blink behind the round lenses of the small, gold rimmed spectacles which rest on his small nose. These give him the look of a banker, or perhaps a member of the secret police in some Iron Curtain country, back in the day when such a thing still existed.
He is clad in a baggy olive green woolen sweater and faded blue jeans. His feet covered in thick dark socks.
Around him, the faded yet well maintained walls of the family's Cape Cod cottage, adorned with sunny pictures of sailing craft, fishing boats and groups of people proudly displaying their catches. The happy images contrast sharply with the mists which surround the building, obscuring the waters of the bay and the dock, both normally visible from where he sits, directly in front of the main window.
But Gerald isn't looking outside, but at the LCD screen of the computer....
The woman glares out of the screen, as the sandy slurry slaps against her bare flesh. She is rapidly being consumed by the sloppy mass, her breasts already gone, the sand lapping against her collarbone.
Her breathing is heavy as she strains against the sand, droplets of sweat glistening across her exposed skin.
"Enjoying yourself?"
The male voice startles with its suddenness, and the woman glares past the screen to the source of it. Her lips peel back from her teeth in a snarl.
"You... you bastard... you fucking coward..." she spits, the words barely concealing her rising terror. The sand swallows more of her, and oozes up to her shoulders, burying the rest of her chest.
Gerald chuckles, glad he rediscovered this file. I've forgotten how entertaining this was...
Ms. Chen always had a certain presence. He remembers she made the same expression whenever they made love, and marveled how the look of intense pleasure and searing hatred were so similar...
But maybe that's just me, he thinks, and takes another sip of whiskey.
"Language... language..."
The off screen voice laughs. The woman scowls intensely in response, then her face fades to a mix of fear and helplessness. Her shoulders slip under the shuddering sand, which softly surrounds her neck. Her arms, most of which are cut off by the edges of the video screen, have been reduced to humps sunk just below the surface.
For a moment, her eyes soften, glistening with moisture. Her lovely chin presses against the sand, indenting its surface.
"Gerald... Gerry..." she says softly. "Please... you don't have to do this... just... just get me out of here..."
Ms. Chen... (funny, he couldn't seem to recall her first name...) had been his assistant at the family's investment firm. She was young, ambitious, and very, very smart, far stronger than the string of others he had seduced and discarded as a matter of course over the years.
This made her a greater conquest to strive for, and in time, even she gave in to his charms, which were considerable, but not heartfelt.
He did enjoy her company, and her body, for a time, but when it came down to it, he had the same emotional attachment to Ms. Chen as he would for any of his other possessions. When she became inconvenient, or no longer worth the upkeep, the time would come to replace her.
That time came faster than he would have thought. Some irregularities in the accounting surfaced - funds missing, accounts bilked, savings drained - and she made the mistake of coming to him first.
The laugh on the video comes suddenly, a sharp bark. The woman flinches, as if slapped in the face. Despair slides over her expression as she settles deeper, past her jaw line, her long hair swirling on the sand in a thick carpet around her head.
"Couldn't, love..." the voice says. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't save you now...."
"No.... oh, no..." she whimpers, the sand rolling over her lips. Coughing, sputtering, she wrenches her head back, trying to keep her mouth free of the cold slurry for just a little longer.
Gerald knew about the quicksand for years, of course. Generations of his family were warned to stay clear of the treacherous area on the west side of the private island, just a short stroll away from the cottage.
The tidal bore area between the dunes and humps of grass was completely covered in several feet of water during high tide in the winter, yet dry as a bone throughout the summer. As kids, he and his cousins used to play on the smooth firm sand, because it was so level and firm underfoot.
The area was only truly dangerous in the spring. When the tides rose, the water didn't cover the area but lapped at its outer edges. Over a short period of time, though, it would seep in, liquifying the area into a slimy death trap.
When his assistant first brought him the news, it had taken Gerald a mere moment to decide what to do, and a fortnight to act on it. He thanked Ms. Chen for bringing this irregularity to his attention, and asked if she had access to the original files.
"For my perusal.... before we make a joint report to the board..." he said. She agreed, how could she not? This is the protocol anyway, even if she wasn't having a secret affair with her boss.
With the file access, it was simple to alter them - with slow, careful editing - to make it appear Ms. Chen was the culprit behind the missing funds. This wouldn't be discovered for at least a month, when the next quarterly audit was scheduled, and so he had time to clear the books on the case.
Files on the actual whereabouts of the funds rested within his trusty ultra thin laptop, whose existence he kept secret from everyone, especially his immediate family. Codes, account numbers, information on secret deposit boxes, all there.
And other files.
The woman continues to cough and sputter, trying to clear the wet sand out of her mouth, which flows in with greater quantities each moment.
Her lips are barely visible above the quaking sand, along with her nose, eyes and forehead. Her black hair is becoming more sodden, and strand by strand is slipping out of sight.
The view has changed, the unseen camera operator having shifted his position to shoot downwards on the quicksand's surface. It bubbles softly.
Ms. Chen's expression has changed too. There is sadness and fear in her dark eyes as she looks straight into the camera lens. Knowing it was useless, she had ceased pleading for her life, and has fallen silent.
Gerald takes another sip from his glass. She never did suspect a thing, and leapt at his offer of a romantic weekend getaway to his private island, which he had bought just a few years ago from the family when they no longer wanted it. This barely a week after she had revealed the accounting issues to him.
Poor little fool... he smiles coldly. Even the smartest of us succumb to the offer of love. Maybe she thought of this as a loyalty test, or maybe... but it doesn't matter now what she thought, did it?
They had romped like newlyweds, rarely bothering to get dressed. Ms. Chen remained happy and blissful, and Gerald enjoyed the sexual bounty of her enthusiasm, right up until Saturday night. As the afterglow of lovemaking faded, he pinned her down gently, as if to initiate another bout, then reached into the night stand drawer for the sealed freezer bag hidden inside.
Ms. Chen's eyes popped open, a look of surprise and terror reflected in them as Gerald clamped the chloroform-soaked cloth contained within it over her mouth and nose, holding it firmly in place even as she thrashed desperately beneath him. But with her arms pinned, and his greater weight pressing down, all she could do was kick helplessly with her long model's legs.
Slowly, her struggles ceased, and as he saw the light fade from her eyes, Gerald pondered smothering her right there. It would be easy and painless and she wouldn't have felt a thing. But that wasn't what he had in mind.
Once he was certain she was deeply unconscious, Gerald slowly got dressed, then went outside, leaving Ms. Chen's nude body sprawled on the bed.
A short while later, he returned, then picked her up.
A brief stroll away, he smiles at the sight of a light surf sloshing in the distance. Immediately in front of him, lit by a small spotlight he had rigged up earlier, was an expanse of wet sand. Near the center, a small lump of cement with a metal loop embedded in it. A short length of chain is threaded through it.
Won't be long now, he thinks. The concrete mooring stone he had dragged out there has already sunk below the surface of the loosening sand, and as he carried Ms. Chen towards it, he can feel it sucking greedily at his bare feet and ankles.
I'd better hurry...
Gerald had quickly looped the other end of the chain around Ms. Chen's right ankle, and secured it with a padlock he had found in the utility shed, along with the stone and chain. He didn't have the means to do the same with the other end, but figured the weight of the anchor would keep the knotted chain tight enough.
The last of the concrete slipped out of sight, and Ms. Chen was beginning to stir atop the cold wet sand when Gerald made his way back to firmer land. He was forced to crawl when the sand beneath him melted, driving him knee deep in gritty slime.
Cutting it close... he thought, then picked up the video camera, just as Ms. Chen screamed...
The camera catches it all, the last moments. The woman keeps squirming, the sand wobbling thickly around her rapidly disappearing face. Her nostrils flare, her breath wheezes, her eyes wide and bulging.
The sand flows into her nose, stopping it up and forcing air to burst forth from her sunken mouth in a painful froth of bubbles and thick gurgling sounds. Her face thrashes to and fro, desperate to clear her mouth or nose from the suffocating quicksand, but to no avail.
Her head bucks, her chin briefly surfacing, before the rest of her vanishes suddenly with a sandy splash, as the anchor hauling her down finishes its work. The surface, indented, wobbles and bubbles. The camera zooms out, catching a glimpse of a pair of hands which have popped free, only to claw futilely at the cold night air, before they both slip out of sight, fingers painfully clenching.
The sand's slowly bucking surface slows, then stills. The bubbles continue for a time before they too cease. Then the video clip goes blank.
Gerald sighs. He didn't know why he recorded Ms. Chen's demise, but he is glad he did. Quite the performance.
Pity I have to erase it, he thinks.
A year after it was recorded, circumstances had changed. The irregularities had festered, as corporate dominoes collapsed, and searches began for those responsible.
The board had been satisfied the first set of missing funds were the result of Ms. Chen's embezzlement, and she remained on the FBI's and Interpol's wanted list under "whereabouts unknown." But somehow money continued to disappear, and powerful people wanted answers.
This time, sharp eyes reported this direct to the chairman and the FCC, and sensing scandal, Gerald decided it was time to dispose of certain files nestled deep within a certain gray metal laptop, which had been locked in a safe within this cottage. He no longer needed the account information, having found other means to hide the bounty, and felt beyond reproach, but didn't see the need to take a chance.
It had been during this cleansing operation he had found the .mp4 file.
Now reduced to a black rectangle edged by a gray frame, Gerald continues to stare at it.
On impulse he slides his finger along the touch pad of the laptop, and positions the cursor atop the bar located beneath the black mini-screen. Using it, he moves the bar backwards, reversing the flow of images so Ms. Chen's terrified face is visible once again on the surface of the quicksand.
Smiling. he positions the cursor over the play icon, clicks it, then watches her vanish once more. As the bubbles cease to rise, he stops it, and repeats the process several times. After a half hour, he then decides to do it once again, this time advancing the footage a frame at a time.
Leaving it at the moment of submergence, when Ms. Chen's eyes close before her final descent into the cold quicksand, Gerald gets up to refresh his drink. I may have to erase it before I leave here, he thinks, but not right away.
A handful of ice rattles in the glass, and he splashes two fingers of single malt after it. Taking a short sip, Gerald returns to the computer, then stops in his tracks.
It's changed, he thinks, and feels a faint chill run along his back.
Somehow, the video window has expanded to fill the whole screen, but that isn't what bothers him. It is the image displayed on it.
Ms. Chen's eyes are open.
Gerald stares back, not sure what he is seeing. He is certain he left it paused as she slipped under... with her eyes closed. Yet, there it is, with surprising clarity. Her eyes are open and staring. Staring intently, as if directly at him.
He burst out laughing. I just missed a frame, that's all. He touches the pad to click on the play icon.
No response.
"Damn..." he mutters out loud. The computer must have froze on him. Never happened before...
Gerald finds himself drawn again to the image glaring at him. The quicksand is indented and flowing thickly over Ms. Chen's face. Only a bit of hair, the top of the bridge of her nose and her eyes remain visible, and it is her eyes he can't seem to look away from.
There is no fear there, he thinks. None. Not a trace. Just defiance and... yes, now he is becoming certain of it... anger.
Why didn't I notice this before?
Shaking his head, he closes the laptop, and hits the power switch. Must be the scotch, he thinks, or I'm tired. The freeze frame does distort images. Guess I'm reading too much into this...
Gerald wanders over to the window and looks out into the night. Part of his reflection stares back. Thick fog rolls over the cold waters of the ocean, obscuring the full moon he knows is out there, and blurs the dock to a dark shadow.
I told the family I was nostalgic when I bought this place from them, he thinks, taking a small sip of whiskey. But truth is, I got it for the solitude. Frankly, I can't stand any of them.
Maybe that's why I've been stealing from the firm all this time...
A glint of light catches his eye, reflected in the window. Gerald frowns, and looks over his shoulder. He shivers, then turns around to face the kitchen table.
The whitish glow spills from the laptop, its flat top now ajar. The glow flickers, and he can see a hint of orange light behind it.
It's on... I swear I shut that thing off...
Walking towards the computer, he seizes the screen and flips it upwards. The image it displays makes him jump back, and a gasp explodes from his thin mouth.
Ms. Chen is still sunk, vanishing into the quicksand. Her eyes continue to be open, but this time he can clearly see anger reflected in them. No... not anger... rage. Searing rage. Fixed directly on him.
"Jesus..." Gerald mutters, and on reflex drains the rest of his glass. He reaches for the laptop, determined to close it again, yet hesitates. Those eyes... he really didn't want his hand to get too close...
"Oh, for fuck's sake!" he says, and grasps the top of the screen. He is prepared to close it when his gaze tears away from that terrible expression to rest on the video window's progress bar.
He blinks, not quite believing what he is seeing. The bar is resting about one third of the way across. According to it, there remains a lot more video to come.
Gerald keeps staring at it. Now that isn't right. Not at all.
I've been watching this clip all evening, and it is only about 20 minutes long... I shot the damn thing, and I know it ends a couple of minutes after this part... so what...
Almost unbidden, his right hand drifts down to the touch pad, and before he can stop it... (stop it? why would he? what does he...)
Click!
Those terrible eyes slip under, the quicksand flowing over them. A final spray of bubbles, and it is over.
Gerald laughs out loud. The clip continues as he remembers it, right down to the final waving of the hands before they sink out of sight.
He giggles nervously, the strange fear which had gripped him moments ago now fading. Looking out the window again, at the fog lapping at the glass, he grins, shaking his head.
Man... that was something... spooking myself like that... Guess I had enough for one night.
Gerald stretches upright, and wanders over to the small fridge, this time to pour himself a large glass of club soda. Looking over to the table and the laptop again, he notices its flickering glow.
That's right... the video file must still be running. But it should be done by now.
Remembering the progress bar, Gerald finds himself drawn back to the screen. All it shows is the still sand. Glancing down, he sees the progress bar creeping along steadily left to right, then looks back up at the image.
Taking a long pull on the chilled carbonated water, he continues to watch. I know I wasn't there that long after, he thinks. But maybe I was... the proof is right in front of him.
Still... I haven't had that much to drink to lose sense of time, and this clip was a lot shorter than this... I know it...
Something else bothers him about the footage, but he can't quite put his finger on it....
The image flickers and begins to darken. It is a subtle change in lighting, and it takes Gerald a moment to realize it. It is softer, more natural. Strands of mist seem to be working their way into the image, but the sand remains clear.
The sand... when the hell did that happen?
He sits bolt upright, then leans closer to the screen. The sand is filling the entire image now, the camera having apparently zoomed in close to its still surface.
The steady camera. Gerald feels the chill return to his spine. That's what has been bothering him. The view has been rock steady, unlike the earlier footage which wavered as handheld camera work tends to without benefit of a tripod.
Not this video. It remains steady, focused and clear. So clear Gerald didn't miss a thing when the quicksand starts to move...
He swallows noisily, the soda in his stomach turning to icy slush. The wet surface begins to quaver, small bubbles rising and popping. The quaver increases to becomes a slow motion churning, and he cannot make himself move, despite every nerve in his body shrieking at him to do so.
I'm dreaming... that it... I've fallen asleep... or a joke... yes... a sick joke... someone has messed with his secret hidden computer to play a joke...
Gerald tries to rationalize, is desperate to explain away what he is watching, even as he feels his sanity slowly being pulled apart strand by strand, like a well worn sweater.
The slowly churning surface first begins to indent, then, alarmingly, bulge upwards. A low sand dome forms, gradually rising, expanding, growing...
When the first rotted strands of black hair slowly appear atop the quivering mound, Gerald leaps up to slam the laptop closed. Choking down a scream along with a mouthful of bile, he staggers backwards, and begins to shake violently. His head whips around to stare at the seaside window and its thick fog.
Wrong way... the quicksand is the other way... behind the cottage...
He finds himself wondering how long would it take someone... or some thing... to claw their way to the surface...
No! Get a hold of yourself! He bites his lower lip hard, drawing blood.
Gerald finds himself outside, walking around the porch, peering intently in the direction of the treacherous pit. The fog gives off a weird glow, reflected moonlight shining down somewhere above the low cloud bank. He can see the trail leading towards the hungry sand, but it fades into the fog. His ears strain, but cannot hear anything beyond the gentle beat of the nearby surf.
Heading back inside, he is no longer surprised to see the laptop open again, just a crack.
Gerald stares at the flickering light shining from the gap. For the longest time, he continues to look at the computer. Somehow he knows the video is continuing to run.
His breath coming out in shallow, rapid gasps, Gerald again finds his hand reaching out towards the computer's top. His fingers tightly grasp the cold metal. He hesitates, his throat closing up as the terror threatens to envelop him one more.
Again, his hand works against his will and flips up the screen...
Twin eye sockets glare sightless out from the video window, filled with sand and framed with the thick slime of death. The sand dome has fallen away to expose the thick mat of hair spilling around the top of a skull, forming a pool resting atop the quicksand's slowly wobbling surface...
A high pitched squeal escapes before Gerald's throat squeezes it off in mid-tone, and he flings the computer across the room. It bounces off of the wall with a metallic sound, then falls to the floor, landing upside down, closing the screen on impact.
"God.... oh, God..."
Gerald struggles to find some sort of rational answer, but that portion of his mind is gone, swept away by the images which glared at him, by the sharp pangs in his guts. He toys briefly with smashing the computer to bits, but dismisses the thought. Somehow, not knowing would be worse...
He finds himself outside on the porch again, staring into the fog. In his mind's eye, he can picture the thing (Ms. Chen? But who else could it be?) rising steadily out of its wet, sandy grave, working its way out... clawing slowly to solid ground with its rotted arms.... its decomposed face turning towards him, somehow able to see the lights of the cottage through the fog through eyeless sockets...
I wonder how long it would take to get here once it is free of the quicksand? An hour? Two? Less? More?
What is the average shambling speed of a vengeful zombie?
Gerald finds himself giggling again. Maybe when she gets here, I'll offer her a drink, and we can chat about old times...
Resisting an urge to head down to check for himself, he instead reenters the cottage. Out of the corner of his eye he notices the laptop has somehow opened itself again, whitish light flickering across the polished wooden floor.
Gritting his teeth, Gerald digs into his pocket for his Smartphone, silently praying to whoever would listen for a signal. It had never been a problem before, but he learned not to take anything for granted, especially this evening...
The phone lights up, but instead of any icons appearing, a single video file appears, covering the entire screen. The rotting skull, chin deep, is grinning at him now...
"Fuck!"
Gerald throws the phone across the length of the cottage, as if it had become white hot. Trembling violently, he paces rapidly around the interior. There are no weapons, save for fishing equipment and perhaps a hatchet or two, but they remained in the shed outside, well hidden in fog.
Not that they would do any good... not against something which is already dead, smothered by bottomless quicksand more than a year ago.
The laptop continues to flicker, and as time passes and nothing else happens, Gerald begins to relax. Maybe... maybe this is a hoax after all... some wireless feed into the computer...
Maybe... maybe Ms. Chen had friends, family... people who suspected him, and doubted the official story... This is their revenge, or a means to get him to confess. At the very least, scare the shit out of him...
He nearly laughs with relief. I must be stupid... stupid! To fall for such an obvious prank....
"It was pretty good!" Gerald shouts to the cabins interior. "You had me going! You really did! But it is over!"
The laptop whirrs, and continues to flicker.
He shakes his head, grinning. He bends over the laptop and picks it up, placing it on the table. With only the slightest chill, he opens it up again to look at the screen.
"Say cheese, you ugly bitch..." he says with a laugh. The effects guys must have worked overtime with this production...
He opens the laptop, then stares.
The screen no longer shows a skull or anything threatening. Just an expanse of wet sand.
Gerald laughs again. Guess the show's over.
Then the view begins to move... lurching... rising over the sand, and swinging around...
His laughter dies with a croaking sound as he sees the view slow down to focus instead on a dark shadow, looming in the fog. Familiar shaped lights burn brightly, and the image begins to get closer to it...
"Oh... Jesus... Jesus..." Gerald whispers, the terror reemerging from the shadows to envelop him completely.
The cottage... dear God... that's the cottage...
He runs outside onto the porch again, eyes narrowing as he strains to see past the fog. He grips the railing tight, leaning out over it.
"This... this won't work!" he shouts into the gloom. "You... you can't scare me with these... these cheap tricks!"
Silence is his only reply.
Gerald's eyes blink rapidly, the fog swirling thickly. Did... did that part darken slightly? Is there something in the fog, coming closer?
He races back into the cottage again, regretting the lack of locks and dead bolts. The island's isolation was thought to be security enough, but now...
Looking over to the open laptop, he sees on the screen the cottage becoming more visible, more detailed as the camera's eye nears...
(Camera's eye? Oh, God... if only...)
He sits down with a soft thud in front of the computer, his knees giving way. I could dash for the boat dock, but what if I run into something on the way?
Besides... based on the images, whoever, or whatever, is recording this is already between the cabin and the dock...
Gerald chokes down the whimpers threatening to slip between his clenched teeth. The video continues to show progress, moving slowly yet steadily towards the cottage. It reaches the long wooden steps which lead up towards the front door, and if he stands now, and walks to the window, he is certain he will be able to see who is carrying the camera, if there is one to be carried.
Yet he stays were he is, his back to the window and door, staring helplessly at the video clip.
Almost done.... it is almost done... Gerald thinks, glancing down at the progress bar. But what then?
Earlier jokes aside, if what is coming for him is who he thinks it is... he doubts any reunion would be pleasant.
The camera view is making its way up the stairs now, swaying slightly from side to side as it does so. The cottage looms large in the distance, growing closer with each passing minute...
Maybe... maybe it will be someone carrying a camera.... Gerald thinks. The someone who set this up... who will get a good laugh at his expense...
He prays that is the case, but deep in his chest he knows otherwise...
The video image has reached the porch, and as it creaks from the weight of someone... or thing... stepping onto it, Gerald feels his bladder let go with a hot gush, soaking his jeans. The outside of the front door looms large on the screen, and glancing up towards the framed pictures, he sees its reflection, and the dark, misshapen shadow blotting out the light from the window at its top.
Looking back at the screen. he can now see the interior of the cottage, as if he was looking inside. In the center of the room, at the table from behind, he clearly sees himself, hunched over the computer.
The door creaks open, as the screen before him shows it swinging wide, the view lurching towards the seated figure before the video ends.
Gerald sees reflected in the blank screen a figure, vaguely human, mere feet away, lurching slowly closer, and he knows there is nothing in heaven or hell which will entice him to spin around and look it in the eye.
He then prays with all his might, even as he feels a stream of cold sand drizzle down his neck, and the fetid stench of damp decay blot out the air, that his pounding heart would give out before the thing could embrace him...
